


Death of the believer

by Sashaya



Series: Wolf in sheep's clothing [3]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dubious Consent, Gen, Killer Claudette Morel, Restraints, Transformation, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 21:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12756807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sashaya/pseuds/Sashaya
Summary: There are changes in the work - shadows reaching for her greedily.She lets them.





	Death of the believer

**Author's Note:**

> **_Disclaimer:_** _I don't own any of the characters._
> 
>  **Warning:** Un-beta'ed work. If I made mistakes, that you have to tell me about, pop in at [SharkTofu](http://sharktofu.tumblr.com).

There’s a change hanging heavily over her head, like a blood-thirsty moon impatiently waiting on the jet-black, starless sky. The shadows are getting longer and longer, until their greedy faux-fingers grasp at the sanctuary, warmth provided by the campfire. They taint the flames with a hopeless chill and turn the red-orange light into rust. 

The long, there-but-not-there arms snake around her bruised neck and they are almost gentle, they feel almost soothing on her burning skin. They are suffocating her, tenderly coaxing breathless moans out of her chapped lips. 

They slowly tilt her head up and up, and up. There’s no resistance, no fight to overcome. She allows it, welcomes it with a rabbit-like heartbeat. Her eyes are enchanted by the moon, the blood-thirsty moon, that seems to be smiling at her with too much teeth and not enough mirth. 

There are icy tendrils leisurely slithering up her battered body. They twist around her ankles, rooting her to the ground with a mercifully-cold strength. They slide up her tights, spider-black and snake-like, biting through her clothes, and lazily crawling over her stomach. They part around her protruding collarbone – two sluggish branches coiling around her thin arms, tying themselves around her fragile wrists, holding her firmly in a grim parody of a cross. The last shadow-hand reaches up and up, and up. It curls around her neck, cutting the last of her breaths with a weak whine of defeat. It reaches up, splits swiftly in three. Two shadow-fingers encircle her head and meld into one in her dark hair, holding her in place. 

The last midnight hand opens her mouth, wide and wider, till it almost breaks in two, and pours inside her. She swallows her soundless screams as the night fills her insides, fuses itself with her every cell, every nerve and breaks every bone, just to mend it immediately after. 

They don’t let her scream, they smother her whimpers and muffle her cries. They take her copper-scented blood, her salty tears. They replace her still-beating heart with a clockwork machine made of twigs and dried flowers, and ice. They take her thirst for water and reason, and substitute it with a need for pain and burning hot blood on her lips. They reach for her hunger and fuel it with insatiable urge for merciless hunts, helpless prey. They grab the forgotten silvers of hope and crush it, tear them out of her and throw it to the wind, to the forever famished crows. 

They let her listen. 

There are whispers in a language she doesn’t know, words that have never been spoken, never been heard. They coil and hiss like vipers, ready to strike, but patiently awaiting a perfect moment. They speak to her in voices that aren’t male or female, or human. They growl at her, spit venomous promises and she wants to hear more. She wants the whispers to continue, to darken the suddenly too bright night. She wants to squash the fire, that is too hot and not hot enough, not like the promised blood on her fingers, in her throat. 

She shrieks. Loud and devastating. A banshee from old tales, sensing death. The shadows let go, retreat in haste, abruptly discarding her on the ground. She promptly jumps to her feet, spins around, searching for a fight, a prey. She’s no more human, she is more. 

Free. 

The whispers don’t stop. They are careful, but vicious, greedy and tempting. She straightens, up and up, and tilts her head to the side. Listens. 

Her shadow is longer now, skinnier than she ever was, with longer limbs and sharper angles. There’s a crown of black and white [calla lilies](https://www.edenbrothers.com/store/media/Bulbs-Flowers/CAWH%20114-1952-1.jpg) resting on the top of her head, too big, with the dried petals of the few gingerly placed [amaryllis belladonnas](http://www.edensblooms.com/files/2165020/uploaded/Amaryllis%20Beladonna%20Alba.jpg) shyly touching her eyebrows. She smells like dye – new, but almost gone, like it’s been a while since the painter finished the masterpiece. [White paint frames her face](http://wallup.net/dia-de-los-muertos-women-model-mask), sharpens her cheekbones. It circles around her eyes, creating pools of darkness, barely visible whites under unnaturally blown jade irises. There are cracks, chips in the paint around the line of her mouth – too long to be human, a parody of a smile. She’s clad in a pine green robe, a summer dress maybe, reaching towards her bare feet. It’s light, almost feels like she’s wearing nothing at all, just the forest’s approval. It’s dark, thought, not a flimsy, see-through thing, that barely pretends to be clothing. It’s soft and durable, resistant and warm. 

The whispers praise her, insult her in one breath. They rush her, snarl immoral and vile thoughts, that could be hers, when she doesn’t move. She snaps back, deadly and threatening, when the whispers question her hunting instincts. They laugh darkly, daring her to prove it. 

She will.

They will feast on the corpses she will bring.

They will celebrate the sacrifices she will lay by their feet. 

They laugh, taunt her weaponless arms, blade-free hands. 

She strikes the air before her in a blind rage, wanting, needing to tear into flesh, to feel life escape with the last breath. She itches for a hunt, cannot stand the idleness. 

The whispers promises her a game under the dimmed moonlight and the shadows point at the nearest tree with her fingers. Her eyes follow, meek and obedient, dark and sharp. She follows soon after. 

Her fingers curl around a handle, decorated by flowers that she knows are poisonous, deadly to humans. She gently strokes the [laburnum](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/53/Laburnum_anagyroides2.jpg)’s yellow petals, that seem to shine among the white flowers of [sacred datura](https://c1.staticflickr.com/4/3129/5825335864_7ecbf5d791_b.jpg). The splotches of white and yellow are punctuated by the [aconitum](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/12/Aconitum_napellus_008.JPG)’s vibrant blue-violet color. Among the petals, she easily spots [snapdragon pods](https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K2B1Sxxupls/UdhJbTyDGEI/AAAAAAAAn1w/cDAUmyItK8A/s0-c/snapgdragon+seed+pod+skull+dragons+skull.jpg) shaped like tiny skulls. They are her favorite – fragile and beautiful under her calloused fingers. The blade of the scythe is dark, obsidian-black, easily reflecting the white paint on her face. 

Right next to the scythe she spots three [throwing knives](https://qph.ec.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-075066fca47d3a7b1111ecdd711e081a-c), buried in the trunk of the tree. The blades are also black. The little handles are decorated with gold or copper straps, looking like someone carefully wrapped it with a few strings of straw. It has three visible blades, curved a bit towards the centre, and the forth stuck in the bark. She yanks them out, one by one, and carefully places them behind the hunter-green belt around her waist. 

She’s ready for a hunt. 

She touches the bark of the closest tree with elongated fingers, drags her fingernails across the rough surface. She smiles – almost kind, almost sweet, full of darkness. She whispers intangible string of unearthly words, that even the blood-red moon cannot hear, and disappears inside the tree trunk, taking the leftover light with her. 

No need for a fire in a place no one will come back to.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review on your way out!


End file.
